


An Honourable Man

by melitawrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Body insecurity, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25165150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melitawrites/pseuds/melitawrites
Summary: Hermione Granger-Weasley, Minister of Magic, receives an uninvited guest in her office.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	An Honourable Man

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The following work is not endorsed or affiliated with J.K. Rowling (including all pseudonyms), Warner Brothers' pictures, or Universal Studios Orlando. This is a work of fanfiction and all writing is original.

‘He is not a kind man,’ she thinks. 

His hand clenches her hips with intent to bruise. And she immediately squirms away. Her subconsciousness reminds her that there is _more_ of her there — deposits of childbirth, age, emotional eating, and her mother-in-law’s biscuits rest at her hips. He does not allow the removal of his hand. Instead, his second-hand joins the first and his grasp is tighter now, nearly pinching. He punishes her former insubordination with a sharp and single slap to the curve of her arse, it’s already rosy, flaming, and sensitive from the successive earlier lashings of his palm. 

She hisses. 

Her teeth clench so tightly that they ache, and her jaw numbs from the strain. She muffles her moans between her taught sealed lips. They begin to split and the coppery taste of blood at the tip of her tongue is almost sweet. As he admires the curves of her waist and hips, she leans into his attentive and unafraid touch. His thumbs inadvertently disappear between the fold circling her stomach she calls ‘childbirth’ and manages to find the sharp, jagged angles of her buried hip bones. And it’s intoxicating how unkind and exploitative his touch is, how little he cares about the flaws she easily sees reflective in every mirror, every undressing, and every day. His hands are cool and dry against her skin almost reminiscent of parchment, but she doesn’t find it unpleasant. 

Before she can consider the differences of Ron’s tentative touch — perhaps, Ron moves with disgust — he slams her supple thighs into the edge of the desk. They wobble. In the moment, she can only hear Arthur’s voice in her head: ‘Mollywobbles.’ She shudders in disgust, but it is a short-lived consideration. 

Pain replaces it. The change of position narrowly misses the curve of her knee, but the edge of wood stings, burns, and aches all at once. When he leaves, she will have bruises to spell away. Yet, she cannot bring herself to care. She does not experience shame or doubt that this is what she wants. Today, this is what she needs.

Her hips raise from the desk. Later, the guilt of fucking and desecrating an ancient magical object will resonate. Later, she will consider resigning as Minister of Magic (again) for conducting her affair within the office funded by her constituents. Later, she will contemplate why he always chooses her desk and not his. Now, she raises her hips from the desk, arches her back and pushes more insistently against the open front of his trousers. 

His groan is both decadent and dark. 

Her pulse thunders in her ears with a damning tempo as her heart electrifyingly beats harder. Her nails rake across her desk. Whatever falls, falls. If it crashes, it crashes. If it breaks, it breaks. Sod it all, she will deal with it later. Her fingers stretch and grasp the opposite end of the desk providing the leverage she craves. Her face shamelessly falls flat to the desk. The sound of her forehead colliding with the strewn papers across her desk is not sexy. And in any other circumstance, she may have anxieties, but right now she cannot spare the focus. 

He groans again — heady and convincingly similar to someone sampling an indulgent wine. 

She has the wherewithal to wonder if his groans are in reaction to her. Is he appreciative of the arch in her back? (She presses her chest flatter to the desk to further pronounce the curve in her back.) Does he notice how wet she is? (She spreads her thighs further to ensure he can see or smell how wet she is.) Or are his groans neither of these nor rather a testament to his annoyance with an inexperienced witch’s exaggerated attempts at seduction?

Fear sinks into her like a stone. When will he tire of this indulgence? What if he decides today is the last time? She does not know if she can fathom - her thoughts draw short as the back of his hand sharply swats across the tight muscle of her arse. Immediately, her attention returns to the tight burning in her thighs and tingling warmth blossoming across her arse. The jagged edge of his thumbnail drags across the hill of her bum and she squirms away. She careens and jerks her hips away uncertain if in pleasure or pain, but the overstimulation of her bruised skin has accomplished his mission: she’s no longer lost in her thoughts. 

Breathing hard enough to hyperventilate, she tucks her chin and is overwhelmed by the warmth of her breasts pillowing her cheeks. She intends to relax, steady her breathing, and centre herself, but he does not provide any reprieve. 

Instead, her body stretches from the sudden intruding girth of his cock. The entrance of her cunt stretches taught and burns with each inch that he languidly presses into her. For a brief moment, she considers stopping him altogether. 

‘He is not a kind man,’ she thinks. 

‘A bellend,’ She admits. 

‘An entitled, loathsome bastard,’ She grinds her teeth. 

Her hand smacks the wooden top to channel her anger with him. Finally, the pressure and pain subside to an intoxicating pleasure. Her body relaxes. Her breaths grow heavier and hotter with his shallow thrusts. She considers how much of her willingness to blur pleasure with pain is fuelled by the heinousness of their affair. At home, she never feels the need to push these boundaries, things just are as they are. 

Wiggling her hips expectantly, she encourages him to thrust harder, deeper. The act makes her feel juvenile and silly. Despite her loquacity outside of the bedroom, she finds herself eagerly awaiting his instruction. His thrusts do not quicken. Instead, he withdraws. His hand firmly but politely presses on the small of the back, and she is eager to follow his tutelage. She can feel the tip of his cock at her entrance again. She clenches every muscle in her body so tightly that a headache begins to form at her temples. 

He pounds his cock into her. 

The force behind his sudden thrust unkindly lurches her forward on the desk. Her plump thighs pinch between her weight and the edge of the desk. She winces, but the pain is again quickly diluted by the steady, hard thrusts inside of her. She attempts to wiggle her hand between her thighs, but everything is too slick and too squished by the soft folds of her body. Before her mind can fill with her common insecurities, he smacks her seeking hand away and instead reaches for her inner thigh. He shoves her legs apart, hiking her leg to precariously balance on the edge using the curve of her knee. Her thighs burn and tremble with the new position. Her teeth clench and she reflects in disappointment at her body’s unwillingness to manipulate his hands: ‘I’m too old, too fat, too arthritic.’ 

He disagrees. 

The sudden strokes of weathered, calloused fingers cross her slick, swollen clitoris expel a ragged, feverish sob from deep in her chest. The noise strangles all sound within the room only allowing her pleasure to echo against the panelled walls of her office. His fingers work counter rhythm to the thrusts of his cock. When he thrusts into her, he stops and when he withdraws, his fingers continue. The languid and fluid flicks of his fingers tick her closer to the edge like the hands of a watch. And in her mind, she pleads for him. She convinces herself to move faster, left, right, up, down, anywhere to reach the edge. In reality, her body trembles to maintain its taxed position and allows him to wrench the pleasure from her. Each nimble stroke is maddening and searing together. He is equally her damnation and salvation. 

She teeters on the edge of shattering when his fingers and cock disappear. 

He disappears.

His disapparation is biting. The other magical signatures she knows are soft, warm, and embracing. Her husband's magic is always playful and feels like the tightest hug. His signature is sharp. Any of his residual magic leaves a sheen of pinpricks in its wake. Her skin transforms to goose flesh and shoulders shake with a shiver. Her fury pricks at the corner of her eyes ready to fall in the form of bitter tears. She eases from the ledge of the desk. Her knees crack and a dull ache sets into her body. She waves a hand to recover her desk to its rightful setting and the items slowly glide to the tabletop again. She yanks her skirt back to its original hemline angry, bitter, and frustrated. 

‘He is not a kind man,’ she angrily reminds herself. 

This is not an affair. He fucks her leisurely and what she presumes is when there is not someone more appealing. He interrupts her days, fucks her on her desk, and easily leaves without the promise of return or invitation for her to visit. Not that she needs an invitation, she’s the sodding Minister of Magic. She is settling into her chair and silently arguing with herself all the reasons their affair must end when the Floo activates. Her head snaps up to meet the warm, playful gaze of her husband. Heat creeps up her neck and settles in her cheeks, she blushes with surprise. 

“You forgot,” Ron laughs with a shrug, “It’s okay. Harry and Ginny are always late anyway.” 

Her gaze flicks to the unfurled letter at the corner of her desk: ‘Don’t forget Harry’s surprise birthday party at 1900.’ 

The loud chimes of her imposing wall clock signal the time, and Hermione smiles tightly at her husband in apology. “We have at least ten minutes,” she jokes. 

He may not be kind, but his honour is indisputable. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Hi, I am Melita** and sometimes, I write. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read my work, I hope you found it enjoyable! If you feel so inclined, please, leave a review. I am an interactive author and love chatting with anyone who reads my fanfiction. I am available on Facebook, Fanfiction.net, and Tumblr all using the same penname. 
> 
> If you are a Snamione author and use Facebook, come join our group: [The Snamione Writers Society](https://www.facebook.com/groups/snamionewriters) where authors work together to cheerlead through writers block, offer concrit from fellow authors, soundboards for new plots/ideas, and provide support from plot to completion for all authors. 
> 
> Thanks and I can't wait to share more with you!


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